


From Spring to Spring [Remix]

by Zdenka



Category: April Come She Will - Simon & Garfunkel (Song), Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: The border between Faerie and the mortal lands, and some of those who have crossed over.They say our folk make false bargains, that our gifts are fleeting; but to me the way of the iron lands is the most false and fleeting of all.





	From Spring to Spring [Remix]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quillori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The End O't](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019522) by [Quillori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori). 



> The song "April Come She Will" can be found here ([lyrics](http://www.simonandgarfunkel.com/track/april-come-she-will-5/) and [music](https://youtu.be/PYD-DIggB2k)), though it's not necessary for understanding the story.

I. Butterflies

It is spring, and the Queen is making butterflies. But of course, it is always spring. In the lands across the border, perhaps the last of the March snows are melting or dull November rain pours down. Here it is always bright; the hunting is good, the lords and ladies are fair and merry, the wine is sweet and sparkling. Who would ever wish it otherwise?

The Queen opens her hand, and the butterflies drift away. Their wings shine in the sunlight, shimmering iridescent with purple and gold, blue and scarlet. They are new and foolish, and sometimes they drift near the border. Sometimes they drift over it. If it is winter or autumn, they nearly always die at once. It is kinder that way. They were born in a land without death, and their wings were not made for snow.

But sometimes, it is spring. Then a butterfly flits from springtime here to springtime there without even noticing, fluttering from flower to flower in the warm sunshine. Often they don’t see the border shifting away or the gate closing until it is too late. And then? What is a lost butterfly to do?

Sometimes they take human form, a lord or lady unearthly fair. Mortals are easily charmed by a fair face or a lovely voice. (But every voice is lovely here, and every face is fair.) Sometimes they fall in love, as much as they are able to. Sometimes they even marry, putting hand in hand and binding themselves for life and eternity (a vow with no more substance than a soap bubble; we are not for the higher road or the lower one, but the wild winding path that lies in between).

They do well enough, for a little while. But then the autumn winds grow colder, the leaves wither and fall from the trees. In mortal lands, butterflies only live for a season.

 

II. Dust and Stone

Among those who live near the border, there are always some who yearn to reach across it. Mortals, straining for something beyond their comprehension, grasping only the moon’s reflection in the water or a handful of withered leaves. They blame our trickery, but truly their nature is at fault, and not us. To one of our people, moonlight remains solid in the hands (until we choose to let it go), and in the lands where we dwell, the leaves do not wither.

And our folk--what do they see? What draws them? The smell of earth in autumn, the salt of tears, the richness of blood that flows so quickly, driven by a mortal heartbeat? I have been the Queen’s hunter for a long time, passing from spring to spring in unchanging Faerie while outside our land’s borders the forests rise and mountains crumble, and I still do not understand it.

It is twice foolish, for the Queen does not give up what is her own. The red-eared hounds can always find their scent, when the Queen sends her hounds and her hunters to take what is hers. Even if they could escape the reckoning, what is fairer or sweeter in mortal lands than here? Still, there are a few who choose autumn’s fading and winter’s harshness over endless summer.

I have stood by his grave, he who was once a fair knight of our company. Mortal-born, but what of that? The Queen claimed him, and that made him one of ours. He ate of our food and drank our wine, rode to the hunt with us and danced with us by oak and beech and thorn. And yet he fled, with his mortal lover.

He escaped the Queen’s wrath, but only by giving himself to Time, letting it steal away youth and strength and beauty until I would not have known him. They say our folk make false bargains, that our gifts are fleeting; but to me the way of the iron lands is the most false and fleeting of all.

Barely a hundred years in the mortal world, and he lies here in his grave with his wife beside him, their names already wearing away from the stone that marks the place. Their child too is naught but bone and dust. Whether she had a child to come after her I do not remember, and soon none in the mortal world will recall it either.

Why would you give up the glory of the Queen’s court and the sweet sound of her silver horns for aching joints and wrinkles and the pains of childbirth, a cold stone and a handful of dust?

When I think of it I feel a faint sorrow, like a cloud passing over the sun. But it does not last. I cross the border again into our own people’s lands (I am the Queen’s hunter, and I know the paths well), I breathe in the scent of spring flowers and feel the sun gentle and warm upon me. No grief can trouble us here, no pain assails us, and none of our folk knows what it is to weep.

 

III. The Hunt

We do not have sowing-time or harvest-time, scything of grain or plucking of fruits. The land gives us all that we need without labor, and each day is spring and spring and spring. Yet we too must pay a reckoning, to keep our borders strong against winter’s frost and the bite of iron. The Queen chooses what price is best to be paid; and who shall say her nay?

When the proper time comes, the lords and ladies walk in procession, each crowned with flowers. Beneath the Queen’s eyes, we spill golden wine and red wine, mingling in the grasses. It is done as the Queen commands.

The mortals beside the border have made a ceremony of it, though I daresay they will forget it again in a few generations. They catch the ones they deem fitting for the Queen’s service, hold a feast for them and give them wine mixed with herbs that will make them sleep. Then they lay them, still sleeping, within a circle of stones. The Queen may ride there when she wills, pick and choose at her leisure. It is beautiful in its way, though perhaps I prefer the older ways a little.

Not long ago, though perhaps it is long for them, they did not pay the border-price of their own will. Then the Queen called a hunt. I am the Queen’s hunter; I rode in her train with lords and ladies, horses and hounds. (The hunting is always good.) It was a fine thing to see! They rode forth in bright colors, with horns blowing and barking of hounds--how the hounds strained at the leashes! But I would not let them go until the Queen bade me. Over miles of mortal lands we rode, up through cloudy grey sky and down through the mountain halls, rushing like the wind through field and forest.

And where the hunt ended, where the prey was brought down, the Queen always blessed the spot to grow rich with crops in autumn, bright with flowers in springtime. We rode back across the border, hunters laughing and leaf-crowned, the red-eared hounds loping satisfied beside us.

Red wine and golden wine, mortal blood and blood of Faerie; so must it be. The accounting is paid, for another year or seven; the borders are set in place. We will not gain ground or lose ground, and the balance holds. Beyond the borders there are tears, there are leaves turning to yellow, there is old age and illness and sorrow. But here it is spring (it is always spring), and the Queen is making butterflies.


End file.
